


Turkafinwë

by AmethystTribble



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU? Canon? You decide!, F/M, Finwe Maedhros and Maglor show up each for like a hot second, Gen, I wrote this while listening to 'It's Quiet Uptown', I'm playing fast and loose with Elven biology here, So there's your explanation for the sad, Warning for childbirth, and mentions of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 03:59:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19782802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmethystTribble/pseuds/AmethystTribble
Summary: Feanor's name for his third son was really more hope than reality.





	Turkafinwë

Twice before, Feanor had held his wife’s hand, and sat in passive support as she brought their child into the world. The panic- which once consumed him so thoroughly he’d made himself sick the week’s before Maitimo’s birth- had faded. Two successful births, two times Nerdanel was back on her feet within days, two beautiful, extraordinary children with the normal amounts of feär. They weren’t scared. Nothing would go wrong. Nothing had gone wrong for anyone since Feanor was born, and it seemed… well it felt like…

It must have been a one time thing.

After their third child was conceived, the pregnancy was an easy one; almost obscenely so. Nerdanel kept at work much longer than she managed to with Maitimo and Macalaurë, and they teased the boys that their new sibling would be far more pleasant than either of them obviously. Feanor thought little of the ease of the new baby. They must have mastered this process for the third child. It was flattering and pleasing thought.

And then Tyelkormo came early; a month early.

But they did not panic at first. It was not unheard of for babes to be born before they were expected, and though Nerdanel’s startled shout was an awful awakening for Feanor, they were able to mobilize easily enough. Feanor sent Maitimo, big enough now to ride a proper horse, to fetch the midwife, and he settled Macalaurë back to bed with promises of a new playmate. Then he readied the water and the rags and stripped the sheets Nerdanel didn’t want off the bed. She breathed, and snarled that, “Of course your child would be rude enough not to arrive on time.”

“Ha!”

Everything proceeded normally. A raven was sent to inform Finwë, Maitimo laid down with Macalaurë, and they all settled in for a long night. Feanor held her hand, the midwife went about her routine without rush or concern, and then Nerdanel laboured. For hours. And hours. And… and too many hours. The lights mingled, and they all knew something was deeply wrong.

At first, the birth just seemed to take longer than normal. All was fine. But as time dragged on, Nerdanel’s breath came out more harshly, and her quips came out weaker.

“Why would the baby ask to come early and then refuse to arrive? We’re going to have to cure that rudeness, Feänáro.”

“Ha.”

The labour proceeded, and the midwife fixed a drink for Nerdanel to help the baby along. Things went faster, but not better. When Nerdanel started to scream, Feanor shook with her, because her cries were so much wetter and more shattered than they had ever been in the past.

He gripped her hand in both of his and clenched his jaw. Feanor bemoaned never pursuing healing as far as he’d once considered as a child.

Not long after the lights mingled, the midwife’s face went ashen, and Feanor only had a moment to think that there was too much blood before his third son was born. And then the midwife’s assistant grabbed him by his shoulder and threw him from the room. Feanor was pushed away; away from Nerdanel, away from his child. He was settled all the way out of the room, having not even held the baby, and Nerdanel was still screaming.

Their son wasn’t. There were none of those sharp, massive cries filling the air, and the distinct lack of infant wailing was its own desperate noise.

Feanor couldn’t move. He stood in the hallway, stock-still and numb. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. Never in all his fears, in his days of aghast, miserable musing before Maitimo was born, had Feanor considered that the baby might be the one to die.

He didn’t even feel himself falling. One moment he was upright, and the next his knees had hit the floor. For some reason, he couldn’t see.

When awareness came back to Feanor, he was leaned against the wall across from their bedroom, and gentle arms were rocking him back and forth. Father. It was his father, his father was here, the servant had fetched him, but where-

“The boys,” he gasped, and Father hushed him.

“They’re well, they’re well. Indis is with them,” Father whispered, in between making soft, soothing sounds, and normally Feanor would be furious that anyone left his children with Indis. But he was breathing so harshly, and Nedanel had stopped screaming and the baby still wasn’t screaming, and he was- he was so, so, so-

He was scared.

This could not be happening.

Feanor shot to his feet, away from the soft comfort of his father’s arms that had always been so attentive but had never really done anything to soothe his hurts. Not when Nerdanel and his son were quiet behind that wall. How could he possibly linger on this side of the door? Not when they were so very frightened.

He slammed back inside, and Nerdanel lay still on the bed. Feanor might as well have instantly materialized at her side, and at once he saw how her prone form was shaking. Sobs wracked her body, and he still didn’t know where the baby was, and Nerdanel was crying, and so was Feanor.

He gripped her hand so tight, and gasped, “Nerdanel, Nerdanel.” All it seemed to do was make them both cry harder, no reason able to make its way past either of their lips. Feanor’s knees hit the ground again, and this time he didn’t even feel it. The only thing he felt was his own hold of her hand in both of his, and how weakly Nerdanel clung to him. Her shudders had more power than her grip.

Sticky hands had to grab and turn Feanor’s chin to grasp his attention, and only then did he finally here the midwife calling, “Your Highness.”

Nerdanel made an awful noise when he walked away, but she didn’t have the strength to struggle against their parting. As he mechanically put one foot in front of the other, Feanor knew that sound would haunt him for all eternity, and his only consolation was that Nerdanel would understand. She would, when she was a little stronger, because she had-

Naturally she would be-

The midwife kept an iron grip on his arm.

The baby was laying on the divan they kept next to the fireplace, and Feanor absently thought, _We’ll have to replace that._

Then he hit the ground roughly for the third time that night, and another sob ripped through his chest. His son was so small, so unbearably small and frail. His tiny breast rattled violently with every nigh silent, shallow breath, and Maitimo and Macalaure were twice this child’s size. But he was still breathing. Feanor’s little son was still alive, despite all the blood and how wet those weak cries sounded.

The midwife was speaking, but he couldn’t hear anything but an unbearable ringing, because Feanor ran his fingers over the baby’s tuft of vividly red hair. How lovely! To have another son with Nerdanel’s lovely locks. But just as the thought came to him, Feanor realized his fingers were now caked in blood, and that was what colored the baby’s hair. He rubbed his fingers against one clump of strands as the healer shook him, and the blood came away some.

His hair was so fair.

In fact, his hair was so lightly-colored that it couldn’t possibly be the same color as Nerdanel’s or his. Feanor’s baby’s hair was so fair it was almost… silver. As fair as his mother’s.

He pitched to the side, faint, and the midwife had to catch him. Her words barely managed to come through the buzzing in his ears in bursts. But eventually he understood, “Hold him!”

With shaking arms and shivering shoulders, Feanor picked his son up and into his arms, trying desperately not to rattle the poor thing. When the babe was settled against his chest, he knew what was wrong instantly. Baby’s breathing steadied some, and his whining grew louder; less miserably small. Feanor could see the soft light around the edges, and he knew it was himself. His body was growing hotter, while Baby’s skin also became more flush. They burned brighter together, as Feanor drew his feär to the surface.

But why… why, why was his son’s spirit so weak?

Helplessly, Feanor looked up at the midwife.

“I-I,” she stuttered, “I don’t know. Yet. It’s not something I’ve ever seen here, babes would be spirited away in Middle Earth, but here… There is something wrong, but I cannot guess why his mother did not help him along enough-“

“No!” Feanor all but screamed, causing Baby to cry just a little bit louder. His weak yell made Feanor’s anger fizzle out instantly, replaced again by anxiety. Even as the midwife continued to speak, his attention remained firmly on his son.

“Of course, I never meant to imply the princess was at fault. It’s just that his feär is so unnaturally weak, and normally the mother bolsters it in the womb. There must be some reason he hasn’t taken more-“

“Will he and Nerdanel be well?” Feanor interrupted. Because any other time he would appreciate technical rambling, but he didn’t care for explanations just now. No, he didn’t care anymore. Just… they just had to be…

“The princess is well,” the midwife responded. “The birth was slightly traumatic, but she will make a full and easy recovery. The baby… for now, I do not think the prince is in any danger, he shouldn’t be, but unless his feär grows stronger…”

Baby made a sharp noise against Fëanor’s chest, as if he’d taken offense to that statement. Feanor eyes filled with tears, and he choked back a sob as he bent down to rest their foreheads together.

“He’s plenty strong,” Feanor whispered.

Immediate fear assuaged, he staggered back to the bed, covered in blood and sweat. Nerdanel still wept silently, even as she she weakly reached up as Feanor neared. But he didn’t release the babe to her. Instead, he simply settled next to her, close enough that she could lie nearly on top of him. Nerdanel rested her hand on their son’s head, and eventually slept, utter exhaustion taking her.

But Feanor and his strong son laid awake for hours yet. Both of them seemed to be waiting for something to go catastrophically wrong. But for now at least, it didn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> I also published this on tumblr @amethysttribble. There you can find my super angsty, incoherent thoughts on how this Sickly Child Celegorm AU would progress, if you are also interested in making yourself sad. That actually does feature Major Character Death tho, sooo...
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading! Please leave comments or kudos if you'd like, and have a nice day!


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